


Corruption

by pherede



Series: Livewrites [11]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Corruption, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon sees, and he wants; he thinks he can have the sweet without the sting. Wow, is he ever wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corruption

He has heard this name whispered in the hallowed halls: Melkor, petulant fallen angel, with hair like earth-melt and eyes that cut to the bone. Melkor, who has broken the world, whose handiwork is seen in each upthrust fault of the earth, which the Valar would have made flat and smooth, a great lawn unpierced by mountain-peaks.

Not one of them said that he was beautiful. His smile twists, complex, never a simple thing; he looks at Mairon in passing, only a moment of notice, and Mairon’s heart burns in him with such unbearable hope and need, such desire that he is left distraught for what seems like an age afterward.

When Melkor comes to him again he is so hungry to prove himself strong, so young and righteous, that he does not (as would have been wise) flee his temptation, but rather stands and defies and tells himself the trembling in his limbs is fear instead of longing. Melkor sees to the core of him, smiles into his ear, whispers such dark sweet things; and Mairon wants to snarl his defiance, but the words send him gasping, rich curls of strange sensation descending into him like hair falling from shoulders.

Surely he can withstand evil long enough to seize the good. Surely he can taste this sweetness, slake this desperate thirst, and yet remain a bright angelic creature of Iluvatar.

He knows he is foolish, but he will not let himself admit that he is foolish; and so when Melkor challenges him, he accepts the challenge, he lets himself be bound. It is so easy, to feel those searing hands against his skin, to let that breath chase across his neck as his arms are tied helpless behind him and ropes dig rough into his chest, dimpling the flesh beneath them, and to resist the idea of evil with all his heart.

It is so easy to shudder under that touch, when Melkor digs his nails into Mairon’s skin and drags them, when Melkor tests each inch of him with bites and pinches and flicks until he is quivering with fear and anticipation. It is easy to resist succumbing even when Melkor leans against him, and he feels the first friction of flesh on flesh, and the unexpected thunderclap of touch overtakes him (he has always been virginal, always holy)— these things are simple.

It is when Melkor pulls away from him, smiling— when Melkor laughs at his keens and the way his body bucks after departed warmth— when Melkor tells him to beg, and listens to the filth and pleading that pours from Mairon’s lips, the things Mairon wants done to him, and slaps Mairon full across the face and bruises his lip— it is when Mairon is at the edge of tears, pleading for another slap, begging for his body to be broken if he can only taste that touch again, that he realizes the gravity of his error, and the depth to which he has fallen.

Too late, too late: he cannot stop himself, he wants to be violated, he wants to be bruised and subjugated, he wants the ropes to tighten and the bindings to cut into his soul. He wants, oh he wants, and each teasing touch to his cock leads him closer to the edge and then deserts him, aching, until he begs for every kind of mercy he can think of, from orgasm to violent death.

When he is truly frantic, when words have left him and his whole body burns like a brand and throbs like a bruise; when he swears himself to eternity, cursing himself for a fool and yet knowing he only speaks the truth (for he is, now, Melkor’s alone until the end of time, and willingly); when he gives up, weeping, and accepts that he will never climax, that he will never be touched to any semblance of completion; this is when Melkor smiles down at him, tender as any lover, talon-sharp fingernails cutting next to the ropes, and tilts up Mairon’s chin, and says to him: _Come_.

And Mairon comes, near weeping with the force of it, expending himself in betrayal and remorse and desperate love, and he is lost in Melkor’s twisting smile, sweet and hopeless, his master’s slave.


End file.
